A Sherlock Carol
by JellyBean30
Summary: This is a retelling of A Christmas Carol, with the cast of Sherlock as the main players. Rated T for references to death, corpses, murder, drug use and a tiny bit of m/m kissing, but nothing explicit. Mild Sherlock/John suggestions.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I realize this fic is completely out of season. Considering it took me over a year to finish writing, I think posting it only four months after the season is an accomplishment worthy of congratulations. This story is already complete, and chapters will be posted at least weekly, possibly more often. This was based on a prompt at one of the Sherlock Holmes kink memes, to rewrite A Christmas Carol with the cast of Sherlock. Assume a post-Reichenbach/post-Empty House reunion, although not exactly a BBC canon compliant world. And yeah, I tried not to, but there are some Sherlock/John undertones. (I really can't help it, they want to be together so much, it happens even when I don't mean it too)

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1

"Why doesn't he answer?" Sherlock flopped onto the sofa in disgust, his mobile clutched tightly in his hand.

"Who's that?" John asked. He didn't look up from the newspaper he was reading; it wasn't necessary for him to know that Sherlock was sulking about something. He and Sherlock had done this dance enough times for him to know the steps.

"Lestrade. I've texted him twice about the Elliot case, but he hasn't answered. What could possibly be more important than a murderer on the loose?" Sherlock huffed and tucked his legs under him, mobile balanced precariously on one knee.

"You are kidding," John said, finally lowering his paper. Sherlock merely frowned. "What could possibly be more important, today, than a five year old murder case?"

"Yes, precisely. The Yard is obviously incapable of apprehending the culprit. I've handed them their man on a platter, is it too much trouble to text back a response?"

"Sherlock, I realize this is probably a stupid, no, I realize you will likely think this a stupid question, but do you know what day this is?" John folded his paper and placed it on the arm of his chair. He knew the answer, knew Sherlock didn't and was preparing himself for what was sure to be an argument.

"Friday, John." _Honestly, _Sherlock thought, _and he concerns himself over my sanity?_

"And the date?"

"24th December. Oh. _Oh._ Christmas, yes of course. How irritating." Sherlock stretched out on the sofa, hands pressed together and resting on his chin. "I suppose it will be at least two days before Lestrade responds. Out of town, naturally, visiting with his children. Tedious."

"How can you, seriously? Christmas with his children is tedious?" John knew Sherlock had been consumed by the Elliot case since Lestrade had indicated new evidence might have been found, and had expected that Sherlock had simply forgotten the date. But to dislike Christmas?

"Tedious, yes, exactly. Gifts that will be forgotten or broken in a week's time, more money than can reasonably be afforded to buy said gifts, alcohol fueled fights, crazed shoppers, weary travelers, children in various states of sugar induced ecstasy and screaming exhaustion, tiresome family obligations. Tell me, John, what specifically about that should I not find tedious?"

John gaped. He didn't even know where to start with that statement. It wasn't that anything, or well, everything Sherlock had said wasn't true. But that was exactly the point. You put up with all of that, the crazed shopping and the last minute changes of plan and the crying and shouting because when Christmas actually happened, that moment when you felt it, none of that mattered. Christmas was something you felt.

_Well, there's the problem right there. I don't think Sherlock ever lets himself feel anything._ John had heard the sociopath line thrown at people by Sherlock more than once, but he knew it just wasn't true. It was convenient for him, a way to stop people trying to reach him. John wasn't sure Sherlock would ever understand about Christmas; it was something you had to let in.

"You don't celebrate Christmas, then?" He decided to stick to facts, talking to Sherlock about feelings was only an invitation to be humiliated.

"Mycroft will undoubtedly invite me to join him for Christmas dinner. It is a family obligation I have been able to avoid…more recently."

If John hadn't known Sherlock so well, he might have missed the slight pause. John had deduced that their mother had passed away, though he never mentioned it. Just as easily, he deduced that this would not be a prudent time to bring it up.

John was spared having to respond by a knock on the door. John barely had time to consider that the knock sounded sharper than Mrs. Hudson's normally light tap, perhaps a bit like wood on wood before the door was opened. When Mycroft stepped into the room, John allowed himself a tiny smile. He was getting better at the details, if not at the speed he could assimilate them.

Sherlock rolled over on the sofa and curled himself into a ball. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in consternation at his brother's antics and greeted John instead.

"Happy Christmas, Dr. Watson."

"John, please, Mycroft. And to you as well, of course," John stood and offered Mycroft his hand. "Can I get you something? Cup of tea?" He knew Mycroft wasn't used to a civilized reception when he visited Sherlock, and as much as it was simply ingrained in John to be polite, he did enjoy keeping Mycroft slightly off-balance whenever possible.

"Thank you, John, no. I've come to invite my brother to Christmas dinner, which you already know, and to be turned down, rudely, if past experience is any indication." Mycroft turned to Sherlock, or Sherlock's back as it were, and addressed him. "Shall we commence, Sherlock? I have several rather pressing matters to attend to before I am able to allow my staff to join their families."

"That's thoughtful of you," John commented.

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. He rose from the sofa; John was never sure how he managed to make himself look so fluid, almost as if he simply flowed into a standing position. "You know precisely how the conversation will transpire, yet you still insist on traversing London to see me when you could have completed your pressing matters an hour ago. That hardly seems considerate. In point of fact, you are wasting everyone's time on such a foolish errand."

"I will never consider it foolish, Sherlock, to extend a kindness to my brother," Mycroft said, although John thought he detected a note of hurt in his tone. No doubt this had been done for many years.

"As you say," Sherlock said, unperturbed as ever.

"Mummy would have wanted you home for Christmas, Sherlock," Mycroft said gently. Sherlock bristled.

"Then perhaps it is well that Mummy isn't here to be disappointed. Good day, Mycroft." Sherlock didn't wait for a response, merely swept gracefully from the room. He didn't even deign to slam his bedroom door, but chose instead to shut it purposefully, with a _snick_ that somehow managed to sound disdainful.

"I am sorry, John, that you had to witness another family disagreement." Mycroft apologized, although from what John had witnessed he'd done nothing wrong.

"No, it's fine," John said. He sighed and wondered how many years of uncomfortable silences he and Harry would endure over Christmas dinner before descending into a similar scene. "Does he ever accept?"

"Not since Mummy passed," Mycroft tapped his umbrella on the floor before fixing John with his normally mild expression. "I trust you and your sister will have a pleasant dinner together."

"How did, no, stupid of me to ask. Well, Mycroft, I hope you have a pleasant day as well, even without Sherlock there."

Mycroft nodded and took his leave. John sat and waited for Sherlock to come out of his room, but there was no appearance made by the consulting detective. _Well,_ John thought, _I'm not going to sit around the flat all day waiting for him to get over this snit with his brother._

"Sherlock?" John knocked on Sherlock's bedroom door. "Mycroft's gone. You can come out." John got no response. He huffed a bit, and hoped he might be able to pull him out of his sulk. "I'm going to head out to the shops, see if I can't find something for Mrs. Hudson. You're welcome to come along, if you'd like." There was still no answer. "You know Sherlock, if you keep this up, some day there won't be anyone to even invite you to join in their Christmas plans."

John left the flat, and never noticed the pale green light under Sherlock's door when he did.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock, of course, noticed the pale green light. He was on his bed, not reclining; he was too angry to relax enough for that. He sat against the headboard, back straight, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. At first he thought the green light was seeping in under the door from the lounge, and he briefly considered giving in to John's questions if only to find the light's source. He couldn't fathom what his flat mate might be doing to create such a color.

But it was a matter of only a moment before it became clear that the light, as best he could tell through his not inconsiderable powers of observation, was coming from nowhere and yet completely suffusing his room. If this was a natural phenomenon, it was not one with which he was familiar, and his petty feud with Mycroft was swiftly forgotten in the face of such a fascinating occurrence.

Until the pale green light began to darken and solidify. Such a thing was simply not possible, and Sherlock immediately suspected his brother was somehow responsible. It was an unusual development. Mycroft had never retaliated against Sherlock's refusal of his invitation before. Certainly John, while more likely to take such action, was less capable of accomplishing a feat of this magnitude.

Sherlock watched in cautious fascination as the light began to take shape. Even though it was undoubtedly Mycroft's doing, it was nonetheless an impressive display, and Sherlock couldn't possibly allow his brother to one up him in so dramatic a fashion. He sat up more fully, eyes darting about the room for something, a lens or point of origin for the projection. Certainly it would be well hidden, Mycroft was not a fool, but for such a convincing display the angle would need to be uninterrupted.

Sherlock found nothing. Annoyed at his inability to detect the trick, Sherlock rose from the bed to stand nearer the apparition. Surely disrupting the projection would help him pinpoint the source.

No matter where Sherlock stood, no matter the angle the light continued to swirl and solidify until Sherlock was forced to conclude that it was not being projected from any point within his room the he could ascertain. He considered briefly that, rather than Mycroft having somehow projected this image, his own senses were being affected.

_No, it's been nearly two days since I last ate; nothing but tea today. Mycroft wouldn't risk dosing me with anything detrimental to my recovery. John disapproves of drugs on principle, definitely disapproves of any recreational use. Mrs. Hudson is in possession of nothing stronger than her herbal soothers, certainly not potent enough to cause a hallucination of this magnitude. No, my senses are acute as ever._

Personal frailty dismissed, Sherlock stared at the light. It was a darker green now, and had condensed itself to roughly the size of a person. _I need more data._ Sherlock extended his right hand into the light.

_Cold. Not a draft, no directionality. Defined area, clear delineation. _

As if the touch of Sherlock's hand was a cue, the light sparkled and swirled and there, before Sherlock's disbelieving eyes, was his mother.

"Mummy," he breathed. "This is unforgivable. How dare you use her image to coerce me to attend your precious holiday dinner! Mycroft, you insufferable prig!"

"Sherlock Ambrose Holmes, you will not speak of your brother in so disrespectful a manner."

"Yes Mummy," Sherlock answered automatically. "No, this is impossible."

"And yet here I am."

"So it would appear."

"But you doubt my presence, even as you converse with me. And Sherlock, I would greatly enjoy our discussion as you work through those doubts, but my time here is extremely limited, and the message I bear of the utmost importance."

"I see." Sherlock paced around the image of his mother, taking in details that were incongruous of his memories of her. _Mismatched jewelry, silver pendant necklace, gold charm bracelet, multiple rings, pearl, onyx, amethyst, long earrings. Flowing garment, poorly tailored, thick cotton weave. Mummy would never dress herself this way._

"And I see that you will not be deterred. Very well then, what have you deduced?"

"Your clothing is cheap and common, nothing you would ever have been seen wearing in life. As I presume I am to interpret this apparition as a visit from beyond the grave, the clothing choice would indicate a punishment for the perceived wrong of vanity. Your jewelry is mismatched, both in style, coloring and metal. Again, a slight to your preferred sensibilities. But all the jewelry does adhere to a common theme, the pendant, charms and earrings are all locks of some type. Possibly as a symbol of secrets kept, but given your tendency toward brutal honesty, a symbol of your captivity in this form is more likely."

"Oh Sherlock, brilliant as always," Mummy commented sadly. "You are quiet correct, my appearance is a form of penance, designed to teach me the value of humility. However, the locks…"

"There's always something," Sherlock muttered.

"The locks are a representation of my greatest offense." Mummy reached a ghostly hand toward Sherlock, and despite the freezing sensation he experienced against his flesh, it was undoubtedly the warmest gesture he could ever remember from her. "I locked myself away from you, and from Mycroft. From everyone, anyone, with whom I could have had a meaningful relationship. More damning, I have perpetuated this failing onto another generation."

"Emotional entanglements are complicated and unnecessary," Sherlock informed his mother.

"Emotional entanglements, my darling boy, are neither complicated nor unnecessary. Your brother, although in unfamiliar territory navigating a familial relationship with you, sees the value in it nonetheless and continues to make overtures."

"Mycroft continues to meddle, as always, in my personal affairs as a means of asserting control over something in his life over which control has never been possible," Sherlock retorted, earning him a disapproving look.

"Consider your Dr. Watson, then," Mummy began, but Sherlock interrupted her.

"He is not, as you say, _my_ Dr. Watson. John is a colleague, and when he is able to ignore various annoying habits of mine, a friend."

"Because that is all you allow him to be. Sherlock, even now at Christmas, a time for friends, family and lovers to celebrate and enjoy each other's company, and you've driven your brother and your only friend away. Sherlock, I beg of you, take heed of my advice. Don't close yourself off from love as I did."

"This is no trick of Mycroft's," Sherlock announced finally. "No matter how irritated with me he found himself, Mycroft would certainly never advise me to embrace the Christmas spirit or take a lover by invoking your image. The image. An image of our deceased mother. I don't know yet who is responsible for this, but rest assured such a personal attack will not pass without retribution."

"I did fear you would react this way," Mummy said sadly. "I failed you, Sherlock, as a mother and as a teacher. Love is the lesson I should have taught you."

"You ask me to believe you are my mother, yet you insist on speaking to me of love and fanciful notions of relationships in a manner Mummy would never have done."

"If I cannot convince you, things will progress as was explained to me."

"You're a pawn, then. Of whose? Moriarty? The technology is astounding, I admit, but such a private encounter is hardly his style." Sherlock steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips, deep in thought.

"Sherlock, you will be visited by three spirits. Spirits who will, I hope, have greater success in demonstrating the importance of love to you than I have. The Spirits of Christmas will not be as gentle with you as I have been."

"Threats? Boring. Very well, whoever you are, teach me of love and the joy of the spirit of Christmas. Do your worst."

Mummy smiled at him, a smile that spoke of loneliness and heartache. A smile that chilled even Sherlock. "Three Spirits, Sherlock. May the joy of Christmas find you, and may you welcome love into your life. Goodbye, my darling son."

Sherlock watched as the form of his mother dissolved into a swirling green light and disappeared.

_Spirits indeed,_ Sherlock scoffed to himself, before leaping to the closet door and flinging himself inside, intent on discovering how the trick was done.


	3. Chapter 3

3

So engrossed in examining every inch of his room in excruciating detail was he, Sherlock nearly missed the sounds coming from the lounge. When he did become aware of the noises, he dismissed the intrusion as John having returned from the shops. He considered briefly that perhaps including John in the investigation would be useful, he had proven himself to be a valuable asset in the past, but before he could think it through properly, Sherlock really listened to the noises coming from the rest of the flat.

John, even in moments when he was intensely angry with Sherlock and making a ruckus purposefully, could not have produced such a sound. In fact, it was not even sound so much as a vibration, an auditory presence that simply demanded attention. Sherlock couldn't identify it, despite his familiarity with all the various noises associated with the flat. It had been an extensive study and required the sacrifice of two night's sleep, but it proved highly valuable in ascertaining when a new sound in the flat might indicate a danger of some type.

This noise was different from any of the noises of the flat, but not completely foreign. Although not immediately identifiable, it was familiar. It was…remembered. Sherlock had heard this sound before. Surely an unknown noise in the flat immediately following the apparition in his room had to be connected. Giving up the frankly useless search of his room, Sherlock walked cautiously into the lounge.

After the 'visitation' from his mother, Sherlock supposed he ought not to have been surprised by the state of his lounge, but it was a close thing. Every surface of the lounge, regardless of its previous state of clutter, was covered in some manner of drugs. Pills in various shapes, sizes and colors were strewn over the desk, bookshelves and mantle, even the skull was full to overflowing. There were kilos of heroine and marijuana in piles covering every square centimeter of floor. Where the sofa should have been, was more cocaine than Sherlock had ever seen or imagined. Some of the bags had split open, and the fine white power spilled out.

Sherlock inhaled sharply. He knew he was ignoring other, more important evidence, the dead drug dealer sitting atop the small hill of cocaine for a start, but he was temporarily unable to take his eyes away from the powder that was just achingly out of reach. He had a small and well hidden stash, of course. But he kept that strictly to prove to himself that he could go without it. It had been several months since Sherlock had even thought of it, and longer still since he'd considered using it with any measure of sincerity. Nothing as trite as out of sight out of mind, for nothing was ever out of Sherlock's mind unless he deemed it so. Out of immediate awareness would be an accurate description.

But to have it so readily available…

_When you already suspect something is tampering with your basic functions of sight and hearing? Compose yourself._

Sitting atop the kilos of cocaine, and looking for all the world as though he was exactly where he belonged, was a man Sherlock knew only as Dionysus. If Sherlock had ever wondered what sort of drug cartel gave their contacts names from the pantheon of Greek gods (he had) he'd never bothered to ask. He'd seen much stranger things from the criminal classes.

Beyond the obvious temptation, the reason Dionysus' appearance in Sherlock's flat was so astounding was due to the fact that Sherlock was fully aware Dionysus was dead. Had witnessed said death, in fact, at Mycroft's had. Or, more precisely, at Mycroft's direction. Mycroft would never dirty his hands on a common drug dealer, regardless of the depth and breadth of his influence, which had not been inconsiderable.

"Stretch!" Dionysus exclaimed. Sherlock hated that nickname, had tolerated it only because Dionysus was occasionally willing to let Sherlock run down wayward dealers in his organization as a method of payment when Sherlock was too underfunded to purchase his own powder.

"Dionysus."

"Wrong, I'm afraid. Don't worry, this is a bit beyond even you, Stretch." Dionysus winked, and Sherlock couldn't help but cringe, remembering the numerous times that he'd offered to let Sherlock work off his debts in other, less savory ways than using his powers of deduction.

"You're one of the Spirits," Sherlock scoffed. Truly, whoever was perpetrating this scenario had a warped sensibility.

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Past," Dionysus made a sweeping gesture across the lounge. "Your past."

"And what is to happen now? You're here to remind me of happier Christmases past, and I am then to realize the error of my ways and rejoice in the spirit of the season?" Sherlock scoffed, as if he would ever be susceptible to such triteness.

"Something along those lines, yeah. Only, I'm not here to remind you. I'm here to guide you."

"Guide me where?" Sherlock was suspicious now, and after the instance with the cabbie had no intention of going anywhere with a man he knew to be dangerous, dead or not.

"On a little trip. And you won't have to take a thing." The smile Dionysus leveled at Sherlock was sinister enough to make Moriarty and perhaps even Mycroft proud. He reached forward and grabbed Sherlock's wrist.

Before he could protest, Sherlock was jerked out of the lounge and found himself flying through London, tethered only to the specter of a dead drug dealer.


	4. Chapter 4

4

Sherlock watched as London landmarks passed below his feet in a blur, his only thought not for his safety, but rather a fervent wish that the Spirit would slow to afford him a better view. John would no doubt point out that most people's reaction to flying over London in their dressing gown would not be one of frustrated fascination with the view. Sherlock, however, was anything but normal.

Abandoning the skyline as a lost opportunity, Sherlock concentrated on his other senses. He smelled nothing out of the ordinary; slightly cleaner air, perhaps, than might be experienced on London streets, no doubt owing to the altitude. Although the air was frigid, and whipped through Sherlock's curls, he did not feel cold. A side effect of the Spirit's presence, protection afforded him by the Spirit to allow his survival of their journey, or merely another symptom of whatever mind altering substance he had ingested Sherlock could not determine.

But the sound, the sound that Sherlock had heard in the flat which ought to have been obliterated by the whipping wind, was still present. It was not a noise, precisely. Or at least, it was not a noise that could be detected as coming from any outside source.

It was then that Sherlock realized why the sound was so familiar. It was the sound of everything. No, an unscientific and subjective term. It was the sound that had thundered in his ears during those few times when he had indulged in more than the amount of cocaine that would have been required merely to sharpen the world around him. It was the sound of his own thrumming pulse, the sound of his own rapid breathing. It was the sound of Sherlock's high.

Dionysus turned and winked at him over his left shoulder.

"Got it now, have you? This is no trick, Stretch. We're going back, to your past, and it's as real as it was then."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue the impossibility of that statement, when Dionysus jerked his arm hard and they began to descend.

Even from above, Sherlock recognized the grounds of the boarding school he had attended as a young boy. They had been difficult years for Sherlock, a young genius separated from his family, the only people who really understood the workings of his cluttered mind. Constant fights with the other boys, both verbal and physical, daily rebukes from his instructors and frequent bouts of depression combined to foster in Sherlock a dislike for the company of those too slow to match his wits.

"You recognize it, Stretch?"

Sherlock snorted derisively. "Obviously. A section of the rock wall surrounding the rose garden is missing, the result of a somewhat larger than planned for explosion. The lack of damage to the oak tree at the northwest corner of the field near the stables suggests our visit predates a chemical experiment gone slightly awry. A ruse like this, set up to torment me with holiday spirit, this is the Christmas before my twelfth birthday."

Dionysus pulled Sherlock's arm again, and with barely the time for Sherlock to blink they were standing in the main hall amidst dozens of students and parents. The noise that had pervaded Sherlock's senses disappeared and instead his ears were assaulted by the cacophony of dismissal for Christmas holiday. Sherlock's eyes darted quickly around the hall before pulling himself up sharply.

The Christmas before his twelfth birthday.

There was no one here for him.

For the first time since these phenomena began, Sherlock resisted. He pulled back against Dionysus' grip, unwilling to watch the scene he knew was to unfold. Dionysus merely smirked and shook his head. Sherlock nodded and steeled himself. He had survived this already, admirably. Watching from a distance would be an annoyance at worst.

"Master Holmes." A strident voice cut through the din. Students who were not being addressed quieted through an automatic response; even parents collecting their children spoke in hushed tones. Sherlock felt his spine stiffen involuntarily before he consciously realized it was his younger self being addressed.

His younger self, who until that moment had not been in the hall, entered from an adjoining room. Sherlock watched with morbid fascination as he navigated through his fellow students to stand before the headmaster.

"Mr. Whitcomb," young Sherlock said.

"Telephone call for you, Master Holmes. Your mother, I understand. You may use the first floor lounge."

"Yes sir."

Sherlock, led by Dionysus, followed his young self to the lounge. He recalled this conversation with less than his usual clarity, and had always told himself, when he bothered to reflect on it at all, that it was his tender age that skewed his memory. Presented with the experience again, Sherlock remembered the tremor in his hand as he lifted the telephone receiver.

"Hello Mummy."

"Dionysus, you've performed admirably and if necessary I am willing to admit that as a child I was, discomfited, to have to spend the holiday at school. We can certainly move on." Sherlock spoke firmly, and perhaps his effort to project was overstated. The Spirit merely shook his head.

"But Mummy, all the other boys are going home for holiday. I'll be alone," young Sherlock said. Sherlock sighed; he knew now, of course, why his parents had not come to take him home for Christmas that year, but as his twelve year old self he had only felt the disappointment and the rejection.

"But, it's _Christmas_." Sherlock catalogued the crack in his young self's voice, the rapid blinking of the eyes and the deep breathing that precipitated tears with distaste. "Yes Mummy, I understand. Yes Mummy."

Young Sherlock hung up the phone and allowed himself almost three full minutes of quiet thought before returning to the hall to tell the headmaster that he would not be going home for Christmas.

"Real shame, that," Dionysus drawled. "Kids ought to be home for Christmas."

Sherlock glared.

"Right. Next stop then?" He didn't give Sherlock a chance to respond. He pulled hard on Sherlock's wrist and walked straight into the wall.

And through to the other side, where, rather than the main hall Sherlock would have expected to find, he saw instead a park that he had once known very well.

Before Sherlock had acquired the skull, which was shortly after his time at university, he had often felt the need to retreat to a location where he could talk aloud to help order his thoughts. At home, he had used his own bedroom, and other than any potential spying done by his older brother was assured that if not completely private, he would at least be uninterrupted. At school as a young man, there were several secluded areas of the grounds where Sherlock could talk and talk with only the wildlife to answer him.

When he'd gone to university, he'd discovered quickly there was no place he could safely talk without fear of being overheard and mocked. Even during the earliest hours of the morning, the buildings crawled with custodial staff and security and the grounds were equally populated with students who were slightly less selective about the degree of privacy their nighttime activities required.

During the winter of his second year, Sherlock discovered a small park in walking distance of his dormitory. There were few benches and fewer amenities; in truth the park had fallen into a state of disrepair and neglect that left it undesirable for most people. For Sherlock, it was perfect, and he spent many extremely cold nights talking at the trees and the stars.

Eventually he became comfortable enough with the relative seclusion the park afforded that he would escape there during the day when absolutely necessary, and it was during one such excursion that he met Victor Trevor.

Victor was a fellow university student, one who was secretly caring for a small dog in his dormitory room. Although to date he had been undetected, Victor too had found the general disuse of the nearby park to be an asset for him. Unlikely to be seen by anyone and reported to the school authorities for keeping a pet, Victor frequently walked his small dog in the park.

Sherlock glared at Dionysus, despite the knowledge it would be completely ineffectual. This had been an entirely unpleasant experience, and he had no desire to repeat it. He watched with as much dispassion as he could muster as the early morning sun filtered through the tangle of branches overhead. He watched as Victor and his younger self sat on one of the dilapidated benches. He listened as Victor interrupted his musings on the inadequacies of the university's chemistry lab. He remembered the strange twist in his stomach when Victor kissed him, and the disappointment he felt that Victor would spoil something so perfect.

"Sherlock, I don't…I don't understand. I thought you cared for me." Sherlock thought he had remembered clearly, but apparently time had dulled the edges of this particular memory because he was surprised to hear the sadness in Victor's voice.

"You have the estimable quality of silence, Victor. It's a rare trait to find in a companion."

"A companion." Now, with several more years experience in reading body language, Sherlock was able to see the genuine hurt and confusion Victor expressed. "A companion.," Victor laughed hollowly. "Sherlock, I love you and I thought, mistakenly it seems, that you loved me as well."

"Love is not an emotion of which I am capable, Victor."

"Bollocks," Victor spat, and both Sherlock the younger and Sherlock the present day man recoiled. "You're not a sociopath, you prat, or whatever other completely logical reason you're going to give me why you can't love me. You can. You just don't let yourself."

Sherlock had not recalled Victor's precise words, but hearing them now echoing so perfectly the rebuke his mother had given him earlier was a shock. Sherlock had decided long ago that love was a complication he didn't need in his life. He'd always believed that other than Mycroft, people accepted his assertion that he couldn't love.

"Victor, I am sorry that you feel this way. I hope that this won't change our friendship. You've been invaluable to me as a compan…as a friend, and I don't wish for that to change."

"I don't want to be your friend, Sherlock. I want more than friendship." Sherlock fidgeted uncharacteristically beside Dionysus. "I had intended to invite you to join my family tonight for dinner, introduce you to my parents. God, what a fool I've been."

"Perhaps," young Sherlock agreed, "but love makes people foolish Victor. I cannot offer you more than friendship."

"And I can't be satisfied with only that. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'd wish you a happy Christmas, but I'm not sure how that would be possible for you. Christmas without love is just another day."

Sherlock turned away from the scene before him, and Dionysus looked strangely sympathetic.

"Not easy, is it Stretch?" Sherlock didn't reply. "Yeah, that's what I thought. All right then, one more stop. And I'll warn you now, if you think these were difficult, you've truly no idea how to handle what comes next."

Sherlock took Dionysus' hand, determined not to allow fear to get the better of him.

When he realized where they had next arrived, he knew that he should have heeded the warning more carefully.

The stench was the first thing that Sherlock noticed; despite the fact that he still remained immune to the cold, even clad only his pajamas and dressing gown. The fact that he could still smell the horrible reek of spoilt food, cigarette smoke and a faint underlying but pervasive aroma of vomit meant it was intentional. And, as this was ostensibly to teach him a lesson about the consequences of eschewing love, Sherlock couldn't disapprove. As an instructional method, it was highly effective.

The second thing that Sherlock noticed, although to say the second thing was not truly accurate as Sherlock noticed perhaps a hundred things simultaneously, was that the flat, while familiar, was not well known to him. He knew, intellectually, that this was the flat he had shared after finishing university and before he began consulting, but beyond that there were very few things about the space that Sherlock knew. He had spent most of his time while inhabiting this flat in an altered state of consciousness and this, more than anything else, reminded Sherlock of why he had suffered through withdrawal at Mycroft's direction.

This was not something as simple as a useless fact that Sherlock had deleted. This was evidence of hundreds, no thousands, of facts and experiences that Sherlock had missed. And that was unforgivable.

Sherlock had no doubt that it was Christmas, or very near it, but only because that was what these trips were meant to be about and certainly not because he remembered spending Christmas in this dismal place. That Sherlock _couldn't_ remember, not that he'd chosen to remove the information as unnecessary, pained him. For him, this would be akin to experiencing whatever was about to happen for the first time.

Dionysus led him to a tiny bedroom in the back, and there on the bed was the reason why Sherlock had no recollection of this Christmas. His younger self, thinner than Sherlock could ever remember being, was curled on the unmade bed, half laying in a puddle of his own vomit. Sherlock recognized the odor of urine as well, and given the state he found himself in would not have been at all surprised to realize that he had soiled himself.

There was a knock at the door behind them, and suddenly Sherlock knew what Christmas this was.

"Mycroft," he whispered.

When there was no answer from the within the room, Sherlock watched in horror as his older brother opened the door and looked upon young Sherlock with pity. Sighing heavily, Mycroft wiped away a tear before reaching into the filth and dragging Sherlock bodily out of bed. Sherlock's horror grew as he watched his younger self first struggle, then vomit and finally collapse against his brother. With a tremendous amount of difficulty, Mycroft managed to change Sherlock into moderately less disgusting clothing. When Sherlock was at least clean enough that Mycroft felt he could transport him out of the flat, Mycroft sat on the floor and took out his mobile phone.

"Hello Mummy…yes, happy Christmas…no, I, that's why I've called. I'm afraid that Sherlock and I won't be able to attend dinner this year…no, he's really," Mycroft hesitated, voice unsure and Sherlock hated him for that, "he's really quite unwell Mummy. I think it would be best if he went to hospital…no, it's not a phase he's…I have _tried_, Mummy, but Sherlock won't…yes, I know…No! No, you should not come here. You needn't see him like, you needn't trouble yourself Mummy, I won't disappoint you…yes, he'll be well looked after…yes, I love you too Mummy. Perhaps for the New Year, if Sherlock…yes, all right. Goodbye."

Sherlock winced at seeing his normally stoic and meddlesome and infuriatingly controlled brother stumble over his words while speaking to their mother on his behalf. He'd spent so long being angry at Mycroft for interfering, for sticking his overly large nose in where it didn't belong that he'd nearly forgotten what a state he'd got himself into that made it necessary for Mycroft, who loathed entangling himself in the domestics of things, to step in and clean him up. Literally, in fact.

If their mother had truly returned from the grave to try to teach him about love, Sherlock had wondered why she had come to him and not to Mycroft. As Sherlock stood and watched his unflappable brother crying on the floor of his dingy flat while his younger self shivered and twitched, he knew why.


	5. Chapter 5

5.

If Sherlock had been looking somewhat forward to the return journey over London, it was telling of his distress that he barely registered his disappointment to find himself suddenly back in his bedroom at Baker Street with barely the time to blink. Dionysus released his hand and Sherlock sat heavily on the bed. He stared at his guide, this apparition of a man who had once offered to send him on a trip like he'd never experienced, and waited.

"Sorry Stretch," he said, and truly, to Sherlock's ears he sounded sorry, "I know that last one wasn't easy. I'd say I wish it didn't have to be that way, but then I wouldn't be doing my job."

"And what job is that?" Sherlock growled. Back now in the safety of Baker Street, Sherlock began to feel his shame and grief pale in the face of anger. "To humiliate me? To remind me of the many wretched Christmases I have endured over the years? Whoever has sent you here to do this, and be assured Dionysus I will uncover the truth of it, has only solidified my belief that Christmas is a wasted day, full of nothing but self-indulgent fantasists wallowing in false sentimentality."

Dionysus sighed. "I knew you'd say that, Stretch. Hundreds of years, and nobody ever gets it right with the first visit. Well, don't feel so bad. People are idiots." Dionysus waved his hand at Sherlock to forestall his objection. "I am the Ghost of Christmas Past, and my work here is complete. You will be visited by two more Spirits tonight. And take a little free advice, Stretch. Don't wait 'til the last arrives to get your head out of your arse. You think I was bad? He's the worst of the lot."

And Dionysus was gone; simply blinked out of existence before Sherlock's disbelieving eyes.

"This is preposterous," Sherlock announced to the empty room. He lay back on the bed and turned his head to his bedside table. Impossibly, the clock read 22:45. He and Dionysus had been out of the flat for hours, he was quite certain, and yet only fifteen minutes had passed at Baker Street. "A hallucination then, certainly. Perhaps John was not overly cautious in advising me to sleep more regularly."

Having comforted himself that even if his hallucinations were not induced by sleep deprivation, a nap would still allow his body to metabolize any substance he might have ingested that could cause such outrageous brain activity, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed sleep to come.

One of the reasons Sherlock disliked sleep was the lack of awareness it forced upon him. The idea that things were passing him by unobserved rankled him. Equally distasteful were the moments upon waking when his mind had not yet fully realized that his body was conscious. Too often it reminded Sherlock of a drug induced stupor, and had even on occasion been the cause of a momentary panic that perhaps he had never risen above the squalor in which he had been living, and that his new life of lucidity was the dream.

So it was a familiar, if unwelcome, moment of panic that greeted Sherlock upon waking. He struggled to keep his eyes open against the panic, reminding himself forcefully that light cues would help him waken more quickly. He needn't have worried, for it was less than a minute after he first cracked open his eyes that the sound of a car horn blared and startled him into full awareness.

The car's horn had been loud, far too loud to be in the street. Even if all the flat's windows had been open, which they certainly were not, Sherlock could see his closed window from where he laid, a car parked directly outside would not have reached that volume. Sherlock looked once more at the clock on his bedside table. 23:10; certainly not enough time to have metabolized any hallucinogen this powerful, and as John would undoubtedly state, not enough sleep to rectify exhaustion.

So then, something approximating the sound of a car's horn, or an actual car horn much closer than the street. The horn blared again, longer in duration and, although such a thing was subjective, more insistently. Sherlock sighed; this was becoming wearying. Nothing for it, then, but to investigate.

Certain he was prepared for whatever his obviously addled mind could throw at him, Sherlock opened his bedroom door and walked into the lounge.

Considering his previous…Sherlock decided to call them adventures, no doubt a result of his overexposure to John's blog, he was not truly surprised to find a cab in the lounge. Nor, once he saw the cab, was he shocked to see Jefferson Hope leaning against it, wearing the same cable-knit jumper and tam that he'd been wearing when he'd died. He would admit, to himself if to no one else, that the open wound in his shoulder, complete with still oozing blood, was somewhat unsettling. For the most part, the bodies with grievous wounds that Sherlock dealt with were already dead, and therefore no longer bleeding. He deemed it excessively morbid for the undead to continue to ooze spectral blood.

"You're the cabby," Sherlock said. "And presumably another of the Spirits who is to visit me this evening."

"I'm the Ghost of Christmas Present, Mr. Holmes," Hope said.

"Given what happened the last time I accepted a ride in your cab, you can hardly expect me to get in willingly," Sherlock said, all the while knowing that if this was to proceed as it had with Dionysus, his resistance would not matter a whit.

"Come now, Mr. Holmes, we both know how clever you are. It don't matter if you're willing," Hope said. And as Sherlock suspected, with his next breath he was seated in the back of the cab with Hope at the wheel. "Now, you're not going to try giving me any trouble, are you Mr. Holmes? You could, you know, nothing wrong with your body, is there? I just thought you might want to know, even bleeding as I am, you can't hurt me."

"That would seem self evident, as I know that you are already dead," Sherlock replied. "My only desire at this moment, Mr. Hope, is to have this done as quickly as possible."

"Still convinced you're dreaming, then? Or drugged? I can't blame you, myself. I wouldn't believe it either, if it were me. Well then, off we go." The cab's engine roared to life and Sherlock couldn't help but brace himself for a crash as the cab jerked forward toward the windows.

Sherlock tried valiantly to watch as the cab passed through the windows, to gather information as the cab drove through cars and lorries on Baker Street or to observe the inner construction of the buildings they sailed through but the cab moved at such speed that even to Sherlock's well trained eye the passing of the world around him was little more than a blur. The journey was swift, and when they arrived at whatever destination the Spirit had chosen for him, the cab came to a sudden stop and Sherlock found himself flung forward against the cab's seats.

They were parked outside a small house; it was not a house that Sherlock recognized, but based on the theme of the decorations and the noise coming from inside it was a house where small children resided. There was one car in the driveway, but the silhouettes of two people could be seen through the front windows. They did not stand together, but on opposite sides of the room, and the male figure fidgeted uncomfortably. Divorced, then, and the father no longer lived with the children but had come to visit for the holiday.

"Lestrade," Sherlock said.

"Oh well done Mr. Holmes," Hope replied, and he genuinely did seem pleased. "Come on, then. Let's go and see what the little ones are getting from Dad this year."

Just as Dionysus had done, Hope grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and stepped forward directly into the living room of the former Mrs. Lestrade. She was a slight woman, blonde with a pleasant if weary face. Years of the worry of a policeman's wife and her new life as a single mother had aged her faster than the calendar could. She was watching the children intently, looking for any cue that having their father with them for Christmas was more upsetting than rewarding; it was clear that her children's happiness was more important than anyone or anything else.

Lestrade watched his children, two small boys, Sherlock would guess them to be no older than ten but certainly already of school age, open their gifts in a flurry of wrapping and ribbons. (John probably knew how old the boys were, and their names as well. Sherlock would have to make a point to ask him.) Sherlock was used to the somewhat forlorn look upon Lestrade's face; it was a common expression for officers who had been protecting and serving for a length of time. No matter the effort, even the best of men is weighed down by a life of seeing people at their worst. But Lestrade was even more downtrodden than his norm, and Sherlock could only conclude that it was because he was able to spend so little time with his children.

"You've got questions," said Hope. "They can't hear or see us. No need to play shy now."

"Obviously. Lestrade is not so poor an investigator to miss two men, one of them a corpse, walking through the wall of his ex-wife's house to stare creepily at his children," Sherlock drawled. (John would be proud of him for making note of the children's importance to Lestrade.) "I don't understand why I'm meant to see this. I suppose it could be because my own parents were divorced during my youth, but this is a common enough occurrence."

"Very true," Hope nodded. "Keep watching. You'll see."

And so Sherlock watched. The boys were now driving toy trucks across the carpet, over and through the piles of wrappings and other gifts. A beeping noise from Lestrade's pocket intruded upon the otherwise pleasant scene. His ex-wife immediately tensed and Sherlock was fairly certain he now understood why he'd been brought here. Lestrade took a deep breath before taking his mobile from his pocket.

"Elaine," Lestrade began but he stopped himself when he saw her expression.

"Really Greg? It's _Christmas_. It's bad enough you only see the boys once a month when you can manage it. Can we not have _one_ holiday without your _work_ intruding on it?" Her voice was fraught with disappointment, resignation and resentment. The words had the ring of those spoken many times in vain.

"Murderers don't care that it's Christmas, Elaine." Lestrade glanced at the message, and Sherlock couldn't help but notice the boys had stopped playing to watch their father. The tension was palpable; it was clear to Sherlock that Lestrade leaving his family to take care of his work had been a common occurrence, and was in fact expected.

"And neither do you, apparently," Elaine spat. One of the boys began to cry quietly.

"I don't want to have this fight again, Elaine."

"And I never wanted to have to have it, Greg. But I did. And I lost. And so did they." Lestrade closed his eyes and breathed deeply, while his ex-wife steeled herself to watch her children's Christmas be ruined.

"Time to go, Mr. Holmes," Hope said in Sherlock's ear. He wanted to stay; he wanted to tell Lestrade not to spoil Christmas for his boys but before he could pull against Hope's grip he was back in the cab and hurtling toward another destination.

This time Sherlock knew where he was the moment the cab jerked to a stop. He hadn't spent much time here, as little as he could get away with in fact. After the scene he had witnessed with the first Spirit, Sherlock was quite certain he did not to see this.

"I've no interest in watching Mycroft and his friends stuff their faces with ridiculously overpriced food and wines," Sherlock groused. Mycroft had never understood that Sherlock didn't care about material things; it was doing what he wanted without the pressures of the expectations of others that Sherlock had always sought.

"I'm afraid that what you're interested in doesn't really matter, Mr. Holmes," Hope said, his voice casual and utterly grating to Sherlock. Hope reached into the back of the cab and took Sherlock by the wrist. He was beginning to tire of being pulled along everywhere like a recalcitrant child.

Sherlock had never been to his brother's flat at Christmas, but it was exactly as he had pictured it. The fireplace and doorways were festooned with ivy and ribbon; the dining table was laid with gold and red linens and fine white china. A perfectly shaped and tastefully decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner; its bright white lights twinkled merrily and cast a festive glow around the room. Sprigs of mistletoe had been artfully strewn over the mantle, a nod to tradition without the garish kiss requirement looming overhead. Every inch of the room screamed elegance, and it made Sherlock sick.

There was nothing in the room that reminded Sherlock of Mycroft. Oh, the room was precisely the image that Mycroft wanted to project, but there was nothing of the man himself. And certainly there was nothing of the boy Sherlock had grown up with, the precocious trickster who had schemed and plotted to help Sherlock find their hidden gifts as children.

Sherlock much preferred the decorations he and John had put up this year: a cheery Santa hat for the skull, a small, lopsided tree hung with gaudy beads, garland of surgical gauze and an old Persian slipper on top.

Sherlock had expected to find a party in full swing, and was surprised to hear only soft music playing in the flat. It was evening; Mycroft's guests should have arrived by this time.

The door from the kitchen swung open and Mycroft entered the lounge, followed by a member of the staff carrying a small tray. Mycroft sat at the head of the table and the waiter served him a plate. Sherlock watched as Mycroft ate his solitary meal, and wondered if he had truly spent all these Christmases alone.

"One more stop, Mr. Holmes, before we're done," Hope said, and Sherlock was hurtled back into the cab and to another part of London.

The cab did not stop outside this time, but arrived instead in the lobby of a small hotel with a mid-range restaurant. The lobby was decorated festively, if a little cheaply, and in the distance Sherlock could hear the quiet hum of conversation and the clink of utensils.

Sherlock didn't wait for Hope to pull him forward, but exited the cab and entered the restaurant by his own volition. It was a small victory, and perhaps a bit petty, but Sherlock had had quite enough of being ordered about.

He spotted John immediately; it was a skill that Sherlock had honed over the years of their friendship and had proven to be invaluable on several past occasions. He made his way to the table quickly, follow closely by Hope. What he observed as he approached made Sherlock ill at ease.

John was tense, inordinately so. It was not the sort of tension that John displayed during a case, the sort of tension that made him hold his spine straight and his shoulders back. His posture was slouched; his eyes cast down toward his plate, where he was idly pushing food around on his plate. This disturbed Sherlock; he knew that John didn't often indulge himself in dinner out, preferring to eat take-away or a simple meal prepared at home. He had expected that John would be enjoying his meal. Conclusion, the tension between John and Harry was enough to dampen John's appreciation.

Sherlock turned himself to Harry. Coloring and facial features very similar to John; her skin tone and hair were perhaps a shade lighter. Clothing tailored, but well worn; a shiny patch at the left elbow of her suit jacket indicated extended wear. Make-up was heavily applied, particularly around the eyes; her skin was an unhealthy pale along her neck where she had inexpertly blended her make-up. She too was pushing food around her plate without eating; Sherlock observed a crinkling in her nose that he interpreted as a slight nausea at the food's aroma. Combined with the occasional shaking of her hand as she reached for her ever present glass of wine, Sherlock could only conclude that Harry was drinking again, and in poor health.

This was not right. There were many things about which Sherlock and John had fought during their years of working and living together, one of the most common being their fierce desire to protect each other. That was a subject upon which Sherlock suspected they would never agree, but were able to respect in each other. When Sherlock had abandoned John after Moriarty's death to track down his few trusted and dangerous associates, Sherlock had done so with the clear and certain knowledge that it would make John furious. He was proven correct; but after several long and sometimes hostile conversations, John had conceded that had he been given the same opportunity he would have taken it to protect Sherlock.

One of the constant fights at the beginning of their time together had been Sherlock's utter lack of respect for John's privacy. It had nearly been their undoing once, when Sherlock had deduced the cause of a very personal issue between John and his girlfriend at the time. It had taken John's threat to leave for Sherlock to understand that his ability to deduce things about John's personal life was something that John found unsettling at times. While John had agreed that while he didn't always like the observations Sherlock made about others, it was crucial to their cases. Sherlock had agreed that he would try, if not to avoid seeing things about John, to avoid revealing them.

Sherlock was certain that whatever was going on just now between John and Harry would be one of those things he was not supposed to know about. He also knew that he was here for a reason, and nothing he could do would stop him violating John's privacy. He could only honor his promise to never reveal what he had learned.

After a few more minutes of desultory picking at her dinner, Harry put her fork down on the table and sighed. John put down his fork as well and sat straighter in his chair. Sherlock immediately recognized the change in John; whatever unpleasantness he had been dreading was about to begin and he was steeling himself to deal with it.

"So," Harry began. "Been a while since I heard from you, Johnny." John didn't respond and Harry frowned. "I was hoping, now we're living in the same city, that I'd see my one and only brother a bit more. 'Course, I could understand, if you were seeing somebody, that it might be hard to find the time to see your sister. So, who's the girl this week, Johnny? Anybody special?"

"I was seeing a girl for a bit a few weeks back. Didn't work out," John said quietly. Sherlock remembered her. Petite, ginger, grating laugh.

"Not wild enough for you, then?" Harry snorted. "Tell you what, Johnny, maybe if you weren't spending so much time haring off after that madman of a flatmate of yours, you'd have an easier time keeping someone in your life."

"Like you've done?" John shot back, and Sherlock cringed. "Heard from Clara, have you? You two going to give it another go?"

"That's not fair, Johnny. You know I did everything for Clara, took her traveling, helped pay her way through school…"

"You did everything you thought Clara wanted, everything except the only thing she ever asked of you."

"Stop, you want me to see another failed sibling relationship. I understand," Sherlock pleaded with Hope.

"I'm afraid that's not why you're here, Mr. Holmes," Hope replied.

Sherlock did not want to watch this. No, that wasn't true at all. Sherlock wanted very much to watch this, because there was nothing about John that Sherlock did not want to know. But he knew John would not want him to watch this.

"..chasing any bit of skirt that'll look at you twice, just like Dad used to do," Harry was now saying and Sherlock recoiled. Yes, John dated a lot, but he was always kind and respectful to the women he was with. That was a supremely unfair thing for Harry to have said; she'd spent virtually no time with John in years, how could she possibly know what John was like with his girlfriends?

When Sherlock looked back at John, he saw no expression whatsoever. It was a look Sherlock himself had been the recipient of many times in their early association, but thankfully less frequently of late. John had decided the conversation was beyond salvage, there was no chance of an understanding being reached, and he was bound and determined to make sure that his point of view was heard.

"Did it ever occur to you, Harry, that all Dad was doing in all those years was looking for happiness? I do a fair bit of dating, yes. But I've never committed to anyone who wasn't the right one for me. That's a far sight better than Dad managed. And even if I am turning into my father, I'd rather that than what you're doing, which is turning into Mum. How many more years of being functional do you think you have left, Harry, before you crawl into a bottle and never crawl back out? Do you think you can hide those shakes from me? Or that little yellow tint to your skin that you're trying so hard to cover up?" Sherlock watched as John calmly and systematically picked his sister apart. This was so much worse than his and Mycroft's fights, were everything was implied but nothing was ever addressed directly.

"And why do you suppose Mum did that, then? Thrilled to have her husband off tomcatting around? You know what, you're exactly like him, you and that flatmate of yours. Letting him order you around and put you in danger and pretending like nothing is wrong while you're off cheating every other minute and he's doing whatever he does to numb himself. A regular old Watson couple, the two of you are, even if you're both blokes."

"We're not a couple," John said quietly, and his response was so quiet, so unlike the rest of his diatribe at his sister. There was something to that, his change in demeanor, but Sherlock wasn't certain what. "This is the last word I'm going to say on the subject, Harry. Our father may not have been a good husband, and maybe that means he wasn't such a good man. But he honored the commitment he made to Mum, and to us, as best he could, even after she started drinking, and through all the abuse she hurled at him. He stood by her in the worst of times, Harry, and he never had real happiness because he was never lucky enough to find the one person in all the world that he was meant to be with."

Here John paused and looked down at his plate again. He took a deep breath and stood.

"For all your talk about accepting people how they are, and not judging people for the way they choose to live their lives, you're so small-minded. Who says you have to be shagging your soul mate? If I tell you that I love that man more than I've ever loved anyone in my entire life, and we've never so much as held hands, does that make it any less special? It doesn't matter, Harry. I will take whatever relationship he's willing to give, because nothing is more important to me than making sure he stays in my life. Sex or no sex, girlfriends, marriages, whatever, none of that matters. Sherlock Holmes is the most amazing human being I will ever have the privilege to know, and I thank whatever god sent me in his direction every day, even the days when he's sawing at that bloody violin like he's trying to wake the dead. Happy Christmas, Harry."

Sherlock watched as John left the restaurant, and was so focused on determining whether that was a slight limp he detected or whether John was simply uncomfortable in his formal shoes that he almost didn't notice the restaurant bleed away around him and morph into his flat at Baker Street. He remained motionless while Hope spoke to him, dismissing his final words of warning about the third Spirit. He was currently of the opinion that nothing could be more unsettling than what he had just witnessed.

Once he had heard the roar of the cab's engine fade away, Sherlock walked slowly to his bedroom, intent upon curling up in his duvet and not coming out until the New Year.

It should not have surprised him to see James Moriarty lying on his bed.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N 1: This story is not compliant with the BBC Sherlock version of the Reichenbach Fall.

6

Sherlock was proud of himself for not giving Moriarty a reaction, which was patently ridiculous as he knew it wasn't really Moriarty. Moriarty was dead; Sherlock himself had seen the body, bloated from the water and broken from his fall. For whatever reason, the Spirit that was waiting for him did not appear as Moriarty had appeared in death. He looked much the same as he had in Sherlock's other meetings with him, dapper and well-groomed.

"You're the Ghost of Christmas Future, I presume," Sherlock said.

"Just so," Moriarty replied.

"Well that seems a waste. I'm supposed to fear you, Spirit. You're the worst of the lot, I was told. But I've beaten you already. You have rather lost your advantage there. Moriarty's image was a poor choice. I had expected the ghastly specter of Death himself."

"Oh, I know, it seems a bit obvious. But that's the genius. You think you know me, know what to expect. But darling, you have no idea." Moriarty rose from the bed and approached him slowly, hands in his pockets. Sherlock didn't want to recoil; he would not recoil, he would stand his ground.

The closer Moriarty came, the more aware Sherlock became of his pulse, which was racing. Icy waves of sensation rolled down Sherlock's spine; it was not just a feeling of dread, but also a physical affront to his senses. He could feel the skin on his arms breaking out into gooseflesh and suddenly he felt slightly nauseated.

He would not flinch; he would not flinch. He would not…

Sherlock jerked back in disgust when Moriarty wrapped his hand around Sherlock's slender wrist. The physical contact intensified both the cold and the nausea twofold. Sherlock took several deep, steadying breaths before he was certain he would not vomit on Moriarty's suit, an experience he preferred to avoid, no matter the satisfaction it might have given him to see Moriarty soiled.

Despite Moriarty's slight stature, Sherlock couldn't shake the impression that he was looming. Sherlock was beginning to rethink his assessment that his image was a poor choice to foreshadow his future.

"Such a loyal little pet, our John," Moriarty drawled.

"Leave John out of this," Sherlock said. He was careful to control his tone, not to make it a demand. It wouldn't do to give Moriarty an advantage, and allowing him to see how much Sherlock valued John's devotion, his loyalty, his care and yes, his love, was an advantage of unprecedented proportion.

"Oh but that I could," Moriarty said. "I'd much rather it was just you and me, gorgeous. But no. He's your soul mate, did you hear? For how long? How long will he forgive you your trespasses and deliver you from evil? How long before he finally lets you down? "

"Not John," Sherlock insisted. It was fruitless to continue to view this as a confrontation with Moriarty; it was nothing of the sort.

"People disappoint you, Sherlock. Always have, always will."

Moriarty squeezed his wrist, and Sherlock winced as his bones shifted under the pressure. There was no jarring motion with this Spirit; one moment Sherlock was standing in his bedroom and the next he was in another flat.

It wasn't a flat he recognized. Small, but not cramped as there was a scant amount of furniture. One armchair, threadbare and saggy. One small table, empty of even the current day's newspaper. A small television set, a very old model with a crack in the outer casing. No disc player of any kind. One small set of bookshelves, crammed full but covered in dust; the books were likely kept for sentimental value and not for any practical purpose as it appeared none had ever been removed after first being placed there. One lamp by the armchair, a thrift store purchase most likely, as the brass fittings on the lampshade were mismatched with the ceramic of the base. The door to the left no doubt led to the outside hall. The door to right would then be the bedroom; no sign of a separate door for the loo; it must be connected to the bedroom. No art work or pictures on the wall or the shelves, nothing personal to indicate this was anything other than a place to sit.

It was altogether a depressing room. Sherlock could only conclude that it was inhabited by a person of limited means, perhaps an elderly person with no family left or someone going through an extremely serious depression.

A knock on the door startled Sherlock, and Moriarty squeezed his wrist just a bit tighter.

"I know you're in there, and you know I have a key, so there's no use pretending like we aren't going to talk about this," a familiar voice called through the door. Sherlock couldn't place it, but it sounded like a voice he used to know well. There was a short pause, and then the sound of a key in the lock.

Lestrade entered, but Sherlock almost didn't recognize him. Yes, Lestrade had always had a bit of a weary look about him, one that had always been easily attributable to the long hours necessary to his work. But this Lestrade, of an indeterminate number of years in the future, was positively haggard. He'd lost weight, but not in a way that indicated any effort on his part, more that time was simply wasting the man. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin pale. He looked as though he was barely keeping his feet under him.

Moriarty released Sherlock's wrist, and Sherlock followed Lestrade as he passed through the sitting room and into the bedroom without even knocking. Whosever flat this was obviously knew him well.

"Well, you're dressed at least," Sherlock heard Lestrade say as he entered the bedroom. The reply was muffled, but the voice made the hair on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up. That voice did not belong in a place like this. "You'll hate yourself if you don't go and you're miserable enough as it is."

Sherlock hesitated at the bedroom door. It hadn't taken long for him to put the pieces together. It never did. And while he was sure that he was missing some of the details, he knew whose flat this was, and where its inhabitant did not want to go. But pride is a terrible thing, and Sherlock couldn't let himself be beaten by Moriarty, even by a Moriarty who wasn't.

JOHN! His mind screamed. If Sherlock thought that Lestrade looked poorly, then John looked like death itself. He was pale; so pale Sherlock was concerned for his health. He'd obviously lost weight, more weight than a normally trim man like John could afford to lose. And his eyes; Sherlock had always been able to read so much in John's eyes. It was one of the things that Sherlock liked best about John and frustrated him the most. John was a terrible liar, had always been because his eyes just gave everything away. But these eyes that stared unblinking at Lestrade in the dim light of the tiny bedroom were dead. It wasn't that John had learned to mask his emotions; it was as though he felt nothing at all.

It was dreadful.

"I'm not going, Greg. Sorry you wasted the trip, mate," John said. "You look like you could use a bit of a lie down."

Lestrade sighed heavily and sat on John's single bed. He ran his hands over his face and then slumped. "John…"

"I know what you're going to say. I heard it all last night from Mrs. Hudson when she called. Don't really need a repeat, thanks."

"John, I went with you to Harry's services when she passed. Do you remember what you told me afterward? About the last fight you and Harry had?" Lestrade straightened up and stared at John pointedly.

John squirmed a bit uncomfortably in his armchair. Suspecting that he had just witnessed John and Harry's last fight, Sherlock was curious to hear John's response.

"You told Harry that Sherlock was your soul mate and that nothing was more important than making sure he stayed in your life. John, I know you would have stayed if you could, but I also understood why you didn't go back to him when Mary died. And I know you don't believe it, but he only did what he did because he was so desperate not to lose you." John scoffed audibly at this and Lestrade held up his hands in defense, "I know, and I won't make the mistake of trying to have that argument again. But you can't tell me, even sitting here now, that he wasn't, at one time, the most important person in your life. And no matter how much he hurt you, if you don't do what's right by him, you're going to hate yourself. Look, if it'll help, you can tell yourself you're doing it out of spite. He certainly wouldn't have expected you to come. And I know how much you used to love showing him up that he'd got something wrong."

John laughed a bit at that, but it was harsh, and certainly nothing like the infectious giggle Sherlock had always enjoyed so much. And if he wasn't mistaken, and he so rarely was, that was a tear that had just run down John's cheek.

Sherlock sat beside Lestrade on the bed, but ignored him completely in favor of studying John. His initial impression that John had lost weight was correct. A stone at least, his shirt was gaping at the collar and his jacket hung loosely on his frame. Sherlock looked at John's hands and noticed a plain gold band on his right hand. John had never worn a ring before. He checked the left hand, but it was free of any jewelry and there was no discernable indentation on the ring finger. Recalling what Lestrade had said about a Mary who had passed away, Sherlock winced. John's wife? The ring on his right hand could be viewed as a widow's ring; an old fashioned custom, but one John might observe out of respect. They couldn't have been married long, for there to be no indentation or tan lines on his left hand. Was their courtship a long one, or a whirlwind affair ending in a marriage cut short by a tragic death?

"Didn't see that coming, did you Sherlock? Our John, all alone," Moriarty said and Sherlock startled; he had not even noticed Moriarty sitting beside him.

"He is not _our_ John," Sherlock hissed.

"Well he isn't your John, is he? At least, not anymore," Moriarty whispered is his ear, and the words trailed down Sherlock's spine like icy molasses. "Such a shame, when good pets go bad."

"I'm sorry, Greg, but I won't…I can't let that man hurt me again," John said. "Have a coffee at least before you go. And take some aftershave from the loo, you smell like Harry." The last was flung at Lestrade angrily.

"Sorry, mate," Lestrade said, and he sounded like a boy who had just been chastised by a favorite grandparent. "Just needed a bit of a crutch." Where John had been leaning forward in his armchair to stand, the sudden sigh of upholstery caused Lestrade to wince. "Shit. John, I'm sorry. I didn't mean anything by it."

A wave of nausea hit Sherlock as Moriarty seized his wrist, but he clenched his teeth and hissed. "No, wait. What does that mean? What was Lestrade apologizing for? I don't understand…"

Sherlock's protests died away as he found himself out of John's flat and in a local church. The pews were mostly empty, save a few in the very back that were populated by what were undoubtedly the homeless, although Sherlock recognized not more than a handful of them. There was a small contingent of officers from Scotland Yard seated together on the left of the church; Sherlock saw Hopkins among them, looking much the same as he always had, if a bit greyer at the temples. Mrs. Hudson was seated on the right and toward the front, at the end of the pew. In the very front row sat Lestrade.

Sherlock did not know exactly how many years into the future he had been brought, but he could observe. Mrs. Hudson was still alive, and looking remarkably the same as when Sherlock had seen her yesterday. He would not add much more than five, and certainly less than ten years, to her current age. Hopkins barely looked as though he had aged a day, which Sherlock filed away as evidence his initial impression of five years was likely accurate.

Lestrade's appearance clouded matters somewhat. He seemed to have aged far more than any of his contemporaries. Sherlock sat to observe Lestrade more closely. His eyes were bloodshot, and because John had mentioned it Sherlock could detect an odor of alcohol on his breath. Drinking then, either simply last night to relieve his grief or for longer Sherlock could not be completely certain. A longer association with alcohol could help to explain his accelerated aging. A quick glance at his hands revealed a faint line indicating where a ring had been worn. Sherlock estimated it would take no more than three months for the impression of a wedding ring to have faded. So then, either divorced for the second time within the year, or for slightly longer but had only just resigned himself to that fact and removed his ring. His hands were steady in his lap, no sign of any shaking or trembling to indicate a longer drinking problem. His most recent divorce and this apparently unexpected death contributed to his appearance.

The service concluded, and the mourners began to depart. Lestrade remained seated. A few officers passed by and acknowledged him, fewer still stopped long enough to offer condolences. Sherlock had always assumed (not hoped, because the term hope implied that he in some way cared about people's actions after this death) that his funeral would be well attended, by contacts and clients he had associated with through the years. To see so few attendees was a surprise to him. To know that John refused to attend was nothing short of a shock.

Mrs. Hudson approached last, and Lestrade stood to embrace her.

"You all right, Mrs. Hudson?" Lestrade asked kindly.

"Oh yes, dear. He's not the first loved one I've seen into the ground, you know. Once you've reached my age, you become a bit resigned to the fact," Mrs. Hudson said, and Sherlock smiled.

"I suppose you do at that," Lestrade agreed. "Doesn't always help, though, does it?"

"No," she replied. "He was always such a dear to me." Lestrade made a poor attempt to disguise a snort. "I'll have none of that, young man. I know he was difficult, and more than once I had to lay down the law to that boy. But he never left me any doubt that he cared, after his own fashion."

"You should count yourself lucky, then," Lestrade sighed and Sherlock stilled. He turned to Moriarty, and the grin on that man's face was nothing short of terrible. "Not all of us were so fortunate."

"You couldn't convince him to come either, then," Mrs. Hudson asked. "No, of course you couldn't. Oh, my poor boys. I do wish I could have done something more for them, the dears." Mrs. Hudson sighed and wiped her eyes.

"You can't blame yourself, Ms. Hudson," Lestrade comforted. "I don't know if John would have ever understood, even if he'd heard it from the horse's mouth. So to speak."

Sherlock felt a trickle of icy cold dread down his spine as Moriarty sidled up beside him. "Come on, then, gorgeous. Have you figured it out yet?"

Of course he'd figured it out, and Moriarty knew that, which could only mean he intended to gloat over something and Sherlock was simply too fragile at that moment to hear it. Whatever had happened, and by now he wasn't sure he wanted to know, he had driven John away. No gloating was necessary. Sherlock was sufficiently devastated without any additional needling on Moriarty's part.

Moriarty took Sherlock's arm, but rather than squeeze as he had done before, he trailed his icy fingers down Sherlock's arm lightly, raising gooseflesh and making Sherlock retch before clamping down painfully on his wrist.

They were back in John's flat. John was sitting in the armchair in the lounge, and was determinedly not looking at his visitor. Mycroft. Mycroft, who Sherlock only now realized he had not seen at the funeral service. Mycroft, who had always, no matter how ridiculous or outlandish Sherlock's moods or whims, had always been there in the background, ready to take a place in Sherlock's life if only he had been welcomed.

"I do understand your concern, Dr. Watson," Mycroft was saying.

"John, please, Mycroft. Nobody calls me Dr. Watson anymore," John said, and Sherlock could see why. Who would possibly want to see a doctor who appeared to be on death's door? "Sorry I can't offer you a seat, but…"

Mycroft let his eyes drift quickly over the tiny room in which they were ensconced. Sherlock was sure he saw the same expression on Mycroft's face now with John that he had seen many times himself. It was akin to pity, but not exactly that, for it was tinged with a bit of frustration. And now, Sherlock could grasp its meaning. Mycroft wanted to help John, but wouldn't force himself on someone against their will, just as he had so longed for Sherlock to accept his overtures of friendship, of assistance and of love.

Oh, Mycroft.

"Not at all, Dr. Wat…John. May I be blunt, John?" John nodded. "You needn't live like this any longer." Mycroft lifted his umbrella and knocked sharply on the door. His ever present assistant opened it immediately and handed him a box as well as a large envelope and then closed the door softly behind her. Mycroft set the box down on table beside John's chair.

"What's this?" John asked.

"My brother, despite his many faults, was not a man completely devoid of sentiment, John. This is Sherlock's last will and testament, in which he named you sole beneficiary of his estate, and tasked you with determining his final resting place. The will was written before your…estrangement. And, as Sherlock undoubtedly wrote it himself, it is indisputable. I have no desire for his monetary assets, of course. Nor am I surprised at his insistence he not be laid to rest with the rest of the family. Sherlock had always been a solitary creature, and one who rebelled against tradition. Understanding as I do the reasons for your cessation of your partnership with my brother, I can only express to you my regret that I must burden you in such a fashion."

"I don't…why would he…wait, burden me?" John stuttered his words, clearly confused and uncertain how he should react.

Mycroft opened the box he had laid on the table and withdrew an urn. It was a squat, black lacquered wood box, with two musical notes inlaid in silver. He handed it to John, who received it with the care of a man who had done so more times than he was entirely comfortable with.

"I can't…Mycroft," John said in the tone of a man who is doing his level best to be completely reasonable. "I can't accept, well, any of this. His money, or hi…the responsibility for his…look, obviously he wrote this will long before we, it just hadn't been updated. You know what he…please, don't make me do this," John ended in a whisper, and Sherlock wanted to cry. Even in death, it seemed, he could do nothing right when it came to John.

"And the penny drops," Moriarty whispered into Sherlock's ear.

"I am sorry, John. I would have liked nothing better to be allowed to be Sherlock's family in his life. It seems I am to be denied that even in death. But John, I cannot imagine a more suitable man to act as Sherlock's family than you. Good day, Dr. Watson."

Sherlock watched Mycroft depart with a sigh. Would this infernal torture never end?

"This is just so like you, you prat. Sticking me with the grunt work," John said to the urn. Sherlock sank to the floor in front of John's chair, caring not a whit how he looked in front of Moriarty. "I can't pretend to know what you were thinking, leaving me with all this. With you. But then I never could understand you, not really. Just when I thought I knew you, you'd do something so mad, so brilliant…like you were just reminding me that I'd never known at all." John paused to clear his throat, and Sherlock saw tears glistening in his eyes. "I loved you, you mad bastard. I love you so much, and god, Sherlock all I ever wanted from you was to know that you cared. Even a little. I never asked you to change. I never wanted you to be anything other than what you always were. Was it so wrong of me to want someone to love me in return? What you did to me, and to Mary…it was so cruel. You were better than that, Sherlock. I always believed you were better than that, better than they all thought. They tried to warn me, all of them, that you'd only turn on me in the end, and I never believed them. Even when you…I defended you, did you know that? When Mary told me what you'd done, I defended you, told her you must have had a reason, must have been setting something up, working a case, anything. Because I couldn't believe you would…I really couldn't. And then you stood there, in our flat, in our home, and you said," John's voice cracked, and Sherlock gave up any pretense of keeping back the tears, "you know what you said. I'm sorry, that I disappointed you, that I turned out to be so common after all."

"Oh, John, no, you're not common…" Sherlock began, and when Moriarty crouched beside him and grasped his wrist, Sherlock twisted away. "Please, John, I'm sorry. I don't know what I did, but I can see it was wrong, and you were the best friend I ever…you were the only friend…"

And then the breath simply ran out of him when John reached behind the small table and pulled out his cane. John hefted himself out of his seat and limped to the bedroom. He paused at the door and looked back at the urn, but Sherlock would swear John was looking directly into his soul.

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

"NO!" Sherlock screamed at John, and at Moriarty's insistent, painful grasp.

And then he was in his flat. It was dark, the streetlights were lit in Baker Street. Sherlock rushed to the window with tears still drying on his face and flung it open, ignoring the chill. A young man was walking hurriedly down the street, huddled tightly into his coat against the bitter wind.

"Hey! You!" Sherlock shouted. The young man looked up. "What day is it?"

"Christmas Eve, mate. Have another!" The man shouted back with a chuckle.

"I haven't missed it!" Sherlock shouted. "MRS. HUDSON!"

A/N 2: there is not a section of the story that specifically describes exactly what it was that Sherlock did to John & Mary that was so awful. Based on my admittedly limited knowledge of ACD canon Sherlock's actions when John announced this intention to marry, he would have gone to great lengths to stop it. Personally, I felt it would be a little too confusing to have a flashback inside a flashforward inside a holiday AU. I imagine that Sherlock likely either tried to discredit May in some way by planting false evidence or tried to tempt her into betraying John and then when he was caught spewed some vitriol at John about succumbing to an ordinary life like everyone else.


	7. Chapter 7

7

When John awoke Christmas morning and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen for tea, the flat seem unnaturally quiet. Perhaps because Sherlock had been sulking so loudly for the past few days, the absence of any indignant huffing was more marked. John flipped on the kettle and peeked through into the lounge, but Sherlock was absent from his customary "I'm in a foul mood and unless you are prepared to hear me discourse on the matter you had best leave me alone" position curled up on the sofa with his back to the room. John supposed he could be sleeping, but that seemed so unlikely, given the hour at which he had apparently gone to bed, or at least to his room, the night before.

The kettle clicked off, and John prepared himself a cup of tea. Mug in hand, he went to Sherlock's door and knocked softly. The door was not closed properly, and it swung open at John's gentle pressure. Concerned, for Sherlock always closed his door when he was sleeping, John peered inside and saw the bed neatly made. Well, Sherlock must have been up and out early this morning. John couldn't imagine for what; he knew Lestrade was visiting his children, no other DI at the Met would consult Sherlock for anything short of a mass murder of babies, puppies and kittens combined, he'd refused Mycroft's dinner invitation, which wouldn't be until later in the day at any rate and seriously, what else was there to do on Christmas if you weren't celebrating it?

John took his tea to the lounge and sat in his chair. He sighed at the tree, such as it was, and despaired of ever getting Sherlock to embrace the Christmas spirit. He supposed he should appreciate the quiet that was so rare in the flat these days. John flipped on the telly and turned the volume down just low enough to hear. He finished his tea and was puttering around the flat, killing time until he had to start getting ready to meet Harry for dinner when his mobile chimed with an incoming message. He didn't even bother chastising himself for hoping it was Sherlock texting about a grisly murder; he knew what it said about him that he'd rather spend Christmas with a bloody corpse than his own sister, and the less time thinking about it the better as far as he was concerned.

The message was from Harry. Frowning, John opened it, prepared for either a lame excuse to get out of dinner, which would make him both relieved and annoyed or a drunken jumble that would only make him sad. What he saw instead was

Change of plan. Cab will  
pick you up at 12  
Harry

John frowned; he wondered what Harry was playing at, and thought of the one Christmas after she and Clara had split that Harry had been trying to impress a new girlfriend and had dragged them all to a high-priced fusion restaurant where they'd had to eat portions fit for a mouse at prices that would feed a small country. John groaned. He'd already been, not exactly dreading, but certainly not looking forward to, this Christmas dinner. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Harry; it was more that it was just a reminder of the things they'd lost, or never had, with it being just the two of them some place impersonal.

Sighing, John went upstairs to have a shower and face the inevitable.

When the cab pulled up in front of the flats, John took out his mobile to text Harry and double check the cab had got the address right. John couldn't even begin to guess why he would be meeting Harry in such a posh neighborhood. Before he could finish his message, a second cab pulled up behind him and Harry exited.

"Moving up in the world, Johnny?" Harry called.

"Was about to ask you the same thing," John replied.

The two siblings stared at each other.

"You texted me and said there was a change of plan," Harry said, confusion giving way quickly to annoyance.

"No, you texted me," John skipped right over annoyance and straight to paranoia. Sherlock had been missing from the flat all day, as had Mrs. Hudson, and now he and Harry had been directed to an unknown address by fake text messages. Given the way John's life went, it seemed only prudent to panic.

Harry was opening her mouth to contradict him when John's mobile chimed.

It's not a trap. Come in before  
you freeze to death.  
SH

His phone chimed again immediately.

Norbury.  
SH

At that John relaxed. Whatever this was, it wasn't sinister. Or at least, not any more sinister than any other mad, hare-brained idea Sherlock had cooked up in the past. It had only taken two instances of one or the other of them being led somewhere by a false text message for them to decide on a code word to ensure their safety.

"It's okay," John told Harry. "It's just Sherlock."

"Your flat mate? The madman who keeps severed heads in the fridge and disappeared a couple years back to escape an international terrorist? I'm completely reassured," Harry said, and John couldn't help but grin.

"Relax, Harry. He hasn't kept a head in the fridge in ages," John said. (Did chicken heads count? John decided they did not, loads of people kept chicken in the fridge.) "And anyway, it's hardly his fridge, is it?"

John could hear Harry mumbling about how that probably wouldn't matter as they entered the building and allowed the doorman to usher them to the lift. Harry was still grumbling about having to sacrifice her Christmas plans (as if sitting stiffly in a dimly lit, mediocre restaurant fighting your way through a conversation with a brother you saw perhaps but twice a year was such a grand plan) to satisfy the whim of a madman who had in all likelihood brainwashed her poor, eager brother into a life of relative slavery when the lift opened into one of the nicer flats John had been in where there wasn't a dead body. (God, he hoped there wasn't a dead body. Not that he objected, much, but Harry would probably not appreciate it as John would. Dead bodies didn't often feature in their Christmas plans.)

"Happy Christmas, John," Mycroft greeted them. "And Ms. Watson, it's a pleasure to meet you." A server came and took their coats. "Shall we place your gifts under the tree with the rest? Lovely. Can I offer you something? Tea, perhaps?"

"Nothing right now, thank you," John replied automatically. "Mycroft, not that I'm not pleased to see you, but do you mind explaining what we're doing here?"

"I'm afraid I'm not entirely certain myself," Mycroft said. John smirked, he couldn't help himself. There were few things in life he found as amusing as a Holmes admitting they didn't know something. "Yes, I suspected you would be amused. Truthfully, John, when my brother contacted me and asked me for a favor, and such a simple one at that, I felt I could not refuse."

"So this was all Sherlock's idea," John confirmed.

"And will his highness be joining us, or was it just his intention to derail all of our plans for his own twisted amusement?" Harry asked and John sighed. They hadn't even met, and already Harry and Sherlock were at odds.

"Naturally I'll be joining you," Sherlock's voice carried through from another room, presumably the kitchen, as he entered. He bypassed John for the moment, who grinned at him, and went to Harry. "Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to met you," he smiled at her, a genuine smile, John could tell the difference now, most of the time. "I am sorry we haven't met before now; I do have a tendency to monopolize your brother's time and attention."

Harry snorted and John and Mycroft both smirked, although likely for different reasons.

"Your brother is rather an extraordinary man, and I've found that the more time we spend together, the more indispensible he has become, both to my work and to myself, personally." Sherlock cast a glance at John quickly, and then returned his attention to Harry. "I know that despite whatever sibling difficulties the two of you share, John values his relationship with you. And because you are important to John you are, by association, important to me as well. In light of that, I'm sure that we can manage to put aside any personality clashes we might have and enjoy the holiday together. It is my understanding that's what families do."

John was agog. Oh, certainly, Sherlock had carefully crafted that speech to be highly complimentary to John in order to gain Harry's approval, but at the same time slightly reproachful, to make it clear that Sherlock was anticipating resistance but would make every effort on his part to make this a pleasant experience for John, thereby ensuring that Harry would have no choice but to do the same or risk damaging her already tenuous relationship with her only brother. It was an expert bit of manipulation, there was no doubt. That was not why John was shocked. It was that every breath of it was completely sincere. It was underhanded and manipulative, but in that special way that families have of making sure their loved ones were taken care of.

Harry was, if her jaw hanging open was any indication, equally surprised by Sherlock. Mycroft appeared, if anything, to be relieved.

"Well," Harry said finally, "you're the closest thing I've got an in-law, so I suppose we'll just have to muddle through, won't we?"

"Brother-in-law to the British government, how does that strike you, John?" Sherlock asked over his shoulder, and winked. _Winked!_ The cheek of the man!

Mycroft coughed quietly. "Indeed. Well, Sherlock, John, Ms. Watson…"

"Harry, please. Ms. Watson is too formal for even this dysfunctional family."

"Harry, then. And Mycroft, if you please. Shall we dine?"

John could hardly believe that the man sitting next to him was the same flat mate who only yesterday had declared Christmas to be tedious. This man, the one who was now drinking his second glass of wine, who had actually eaten dinner and was at this very moment wearing a paper crown on his head from one of the Christmas crackers, could not possibly be the same Sherlock. John was amazed, and frankly, suspicious.

He leaned nearer to Sherlock and pitched his voice low; he saw no reason to spoil Mycroft's one pleasant holiday with his only brother, nor Harry's first well-cooked Christmas meal in years.

"What's all this in aid of, then?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied.

"This, Sherlock. You. You're being…polite. Pleasant, even. One could almost say that you're enjoying yourself."

"And you don't think it's possible that I am enjoying myself, John?" And the kicker was, Sherlock didn't sound hurt. He actually sounded curious, as though he couldn't imagine why John should doubt any of this.

"Sherlock, I've never seen you enjoy yourself when you weren't knee deep in a skip, or staring at a dismembered corpse. Listen, I want to you ask you something…and I don't want you to make a scene. Whatever your reason is, you're giving Mycroft and Harry a lovely Christmas to remember, and that's for the good, so let's not spoil it. But I know you, Sherlock, or, well, I thought I did. So, I'm just going to ask and you're going to answer me and then we'll just handle it tomorrow, all right?"

"John," Sherlock interrupted, sounding so resigned that John felt his heart bleed just a little bit. "Let me spare you what I can see is obviously a difficult and painful consideration for you. I've taken nothing but the wine you've watched me drink."

"Then why…"

"Have I suddenly decided to embrace the Christmas spirit?" When John nodded, Sherlock sighed. "Without arousing your suspicions any further, let me just say that last night, I had a vision of what life would be like if I continued down the path I had set for myself, and I was not pleased with the result."

"And what result was that?" John asked, enormously curious as to what on earth Sherlock could have dreamt that would cause such a change.

"Loneliness, John, is an insidious foe; one that you might not even realize you were fighting until you had lost. I had never considered before, that whether I accepted it or not, whether I even thought I wanted it or not, there are people who love me. It was not until I was shown what life without that love might entail did I realize how important it truly is."

John swallowed against a lump in his throat. For years, Sherlock had been talking at him about the foolishness of allowing his feelings too much power over his life. John hadn't yet stopped trying to convince Sherlock that feelings were not a weakness, but he had mostly stopped expecting to get any result.

"Well, I'm glad of it, whatever the reason," John said, and Sherlock was not at all surprised to hear how sincerely John meant that.

"John," Sherlock turned to face him. He knew Mycroft was watching, and that Harry soon would be, but he simply could not wait any longer to start correcting some of the terrible visions the Spirits had shown him. "I have been reliably informed that despite my previous scorn for the notion, soul-mates do exist. Never mind how, but suffice it to say that I trust this source to be above reproach when it comes to matters such as these. I have also been informed, by extension, that there are some people whose presence in one's life is necessary and absolute."

"Okay. Right. Yes." John cleared his throat. This was beginning to sound frightfully close to…something John spent a lot of time convincing himself he never thought about. "Sherlock…"

"I know that there have been times when speculation about the nature of our relationship has made you uncomfortable, John, and I do understand," Sherlock let his gaze drop to the table. "And I want you to know that, whatever our relationship is, or may become in the future, I cannot foresee a time when I would not want, or need, you to be part of my life." Sherlock paused and chanced a look at John.

John, who had clenched his jaw and was blinking rapidly. John, who had shouted at him and been frustrated with him and sometimes, perhaps, even a bit afraid of him. John, who had done all those things because he cared, because he loved Sherlock so much.

"I can't really imagine that either," John said finally.

"And we know you have quite the imagination, Johnny, if that blog of yours is anything to go by," Harry said, and John and Sherlock were both startled at the reminder they were not, in fact, alone.

"Difficult as it may be to believe, every word on that blog is true," John protested.

Mycroft, in his smoothly political way of trying to cater to all parties and truly appeasing no one, interjected and a lively debate ensued as to what, exactly, constituted truth, what was pure fiction and what was exaggerated to either make Sherlock seem more brilliant than he really was (very little), make Sherlock seem more human than he really was (surprisingly little) and what was blatantly included just to annoy Sherlock and make John smile (not as much as one might think, Sherlock!).

John was grateful for the distraction; things had been getting entirely too serious, and certainly not appropriate for discussion in front of an audience, even if that audience was your own sister and the omniscient presence of the British government.

Later in the evening, when gifts had been opened and Harry and Mycroft were at the piano making a pretty good job of caroling, John perched himself on the arm of the chair Sherlock was occupying. It was a tactical decision; John frequently felt unbalanced in their relationship. Sherlock's enormous intellect, charismatic personality and arresting physical presence often left John feeling at something of a disadvantage. If he was going to even consider broaching this subject, he needed to put himself on more even footing.

Sherlock looked up at John and smiled. He was sure it said something, that having John so close to him was so pleasant. For the moment, he wasn't going to analyze it; he would merely enjoy it.

"Sherlock," John began hesitantly, "when you said earlier, whatever our relationship may become in the future…"

"It would be foolish of me to believe that we will continue to be flat mates forever, John. Circumstances change. But I hope that, whatever changes take place in the rest of our lives, we will continue to be friends, and part of each other's lives."

John wouldn't even try to deny the flush of disappointment he felt. Of course that was what Sherlock had meant.

"You're disappointed," Sherlock said. "What did you think I…oh." Sherlock was stunned. He had never supposed…no, that wasn't true. He had never hoped. "I meant exactly what I said, John. _Whatever_ our relationship may become."

"Right," John said, flushing now for a different reason entirely. "Right. Well then. Good. That's…yes, fine. All fine."

"Good. I'm glad that's settled," Sherlock said, although he felt more unsettled than he had in years. "So."

"Yes," John agreed.

"Mycroft and Harry seem to be getting along splendidly," Sherlock commented. "Which I suppose means his meddling will now be even better informed."

"And Harry's will be more manipulative," John said.

The two stared at each other with something akin to the shared horror of family drama.

"God help us," John said.

"Everyone," Sherlock corrected.


End file.
